


Uncle Bilbo Is Not Going On Your Adventure

by Erisah_Mae



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Are foolish things to make, Assumptions, BAMF Hobbits, Baby Hobbits, Bilbo is not having any of it, Dwalin Is A Softie, Dwarves are all softies for younglings, Gandalf Meddles, Gandalf really should have done his homework a bit better, Gen, Protective Bilbo, Young Frodo Baggins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erisah_Mae/pseuds/Erisah_Mae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf assumes that he is going to be able to bully Bilbo into coming along on the quest for Erebor. You know what they say about people who assume... Bilbo's not going, and nothing Gandalf can say is going to change his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Every day, in that brief space between elevensies and luncheon, Bilbo Baggins would take a little time for himself. Sometimes, he would sit and read his book. Sometimes he would potter about the garden, or go for a stroll down to the town square.

Today, since the weather was fine, he sat in the sun on the bench that was situated a little in front of his house and had a quiet smoke.

Naturally, it was just after he had settled in that an old man in a shabby grey cloak, pointed hat and a rather impressive-looking walking stick paused by his front gate.

Bilbo was predisposed towards being in a good mood, so he offered a polite: “Good morning!”

“What do you mean?” the old man asked, brow creasing in a frown even as his eyes twinkled with mischief. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is morning to be good on?”

Bilbo was rather taken aback.

“All of them at once,” he said after a pause, wishing he might of thought of something wittier. Still, this man seemed like he might have some interesting conversation to offer, so Bilbo continued. “And a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco out of doors, into the bargain. If you have a pipe about you, sit down and have a fill of mine!” Then Bilbo sat down on a seat by his door, crossed his legs, and blew out a beautiful grey ring of smoke that sailed up into the air without breaking and floated away over The Hill.

“Very pretty!” said the old man, though Bilbo got the distinct impression he was being humoured. “But I have no time to blow smoke rings this morning,” a pity, thought Bilbo. When the old man continued however, he started to feel a little uneasy. “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it is very difficult to find anyone.”

The old man then proceeded to look at Bilbo in a meaningful fashion.

Bilbo nearly choked on his pipe.

Had the old man lost his marbles? Maybe a few years ago Bilbo might have been at least tempted, but now? No. Best to nip this line of thought in the bud right now.

“I should think so - in these parts! We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things!” He thought perhaps channelling his Uncle Bingo might get his point across.  “Make you late for dinner! I can’t think what anybody sees in them,” he lied firmly, and moved over to his letterbox to sort through his mail. There had been a time when he might have been willing to be talked into such things, but he had responsibilities now. As much as it would be interesting to go travelling over hill and dale on some mad lark, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.

Having rather rudely ignored the old man for a good few minutes as he shuffled his letters, Bilbo was disappointed when he looked up and saw that the man was still standing there, just looking at him.

Drat, thought Bilbo. How to make the old codger go away?

“Good morning!” he said at last. “We don’t want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water.” Anywhere but here, he thought, but didn’t say.

“What a lot of things you do use Good morning for!” said the old man, thoroughly unperturbed by Bilbo’s rudeness. “Now you mean that you want to get rid of me, and that it won’t be good till I move off!”

Well if you understand my meaning, then why on Yavanna’s green earth are you ignoring it? Bilbo wondered, thoroughly exasperated. “Not at all, not at all, my dear sir!” he said as insincerely as possible. As much as he might want to tell the old codger to move his ragged behind away from his front gate, he knew it never paid to be _outright_ rude to people… although his display thus far would no doubt have had his father rolling about in his grave. “Let me see, I don’t think I know your name?”

“Yes, yes, my dear sir - and I do know your name, Mr. Bilbo Baggins. And you do know my name, though you don’t remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me! To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took’s son, as if I was selling buttons at the door!”

Oh balrog’s breath. He’d gone and been rude to a wizard. This could _not_ end well. Still, he tried to salvage it with flattery.

“Gandalf, Gandalf! Good gracious me! Not the wandering wizard that gave Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone till ordered? Not the fellow who used to tell such wonderful tales at parties, about dragons and goblins and giants and the rescue of princesses and the unexpected luck of widows’ sons? Not the man that used to make such particularly excellent fireworks! I remember those! Old Took used to have them on Midsummerís Eve. Splendid! They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire and hang in the twilight all evening!”

Gandalf seemed to be significantly less miffed, which was good, but he was also starting to look rather smug, which, in Bilbo’s opinion, was most likely not good at all. Especially if the wizard still thought he might be a likely candidate for adventuring. No. How could he convey this firmly?

 “Dear me!” he went on. “Not the Gandalf who was responsible for so many quiet lads and lasses going off into the Blue for mad adventures. Bless me, you used to upset things badly in these parts once upon a time. I beg your pardon, but I had no idea you were still in business.”

“Where else should I be?” said the wizard, clearly miffed again. Success! “All the same I am pleased to find you remember something about me. You seem to remember my fireworks kindly, at any rate, and that is not without hope.” Without hope for _what_ , exactly? “Indeed for your old grand-father Took’s sake, and for the sake of poor Belladonna, I will give you what you asked for.”

Oh sheep dung.

“I beg your pardon, I haven’t asked for anything!” Bilbo insisted, not a little alarmed.

“Yes, you have! Twice now. My pardon. I give it you. In fact I will go so far as to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very good for you and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it.”

Great. Fan-bloody-tastic. He had offended the wizard, and now Gandalf thought he could make him go out and get himself killed for the sake of… profit and the wizard’s own amusement. Bilbo was furious, and not a little frightened. Contrary to what this wizard seemed to think, he was no fool. He didn’t need riches, he didn’t need excitement, and above all, he could not afford to leave Bag End just now for the sake of someone else’s entertainment, no matter how…

No. He had no regrets. Not a single one.

“Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not today.” Or ever. But how to make this absolutely clear- oh. Of course.  “Good morning! But please come to tea - any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good-bye!”

With that the hobbit turned and scuttled inside his round green door, and shut it as quickly as he dared, not to seen rude. Wizards after all are wizards.

Once inside, his knees gave out, and he sank to the ground. A different Bilbo, a Bilbo who was used to running only on his own schedule and living at his own rhythms might have then tried to put the whole thing from his mind, and carried on his day pretending that the last twenty minutes had never happened.

This Bilbo, however, had been forced to come to terms with the fact that ignoring problems not only didn’t make them go away, it tended to make them snowball and then explode in all sorts of ways that could have been stopped if only he had acted a little quicker.

“Oh sheep dung and orc spit,” he moaned to himself. “I suppose I had better go to the market and make sure I have a full larder. Knowing my luck, he’ll bring some unexpected guests with him.”

Because it was well-known that if you wanted to upset a hobbit (who all prided themselves as excellent hosts), unplanned for, and thus un-catered for guests was a well-known way to go about it.

Little did he know just how right he was.

He raked his fingers through his curls. “And I only have a little time before lunch, too, so I’m going to have to hurry. Oh botheration and drat.”

With little time to lose, Bilbo went to the market and acquired several cheeses, a huge bag of flour, a large leg of ham, and all manner of greens and things for baking. He bought so much that in the end he needed to pay a few pennies to some of the local lads and lasses to help him carry it home.

Not even five minutes back in the door, and Mistress Proudfoot had dropped by, carrying what might have looked to the untrained eye to be a woolly cushion with muddy feet, but on closer inspection was a tiny sleeping hobbit-babe, no more than four years old.

“Oh good afternoon Mistress Proudfoot! Was he well behaved?” Bilbo asked in an undertone, all smiles as he took the precious bundle from her. Little Frodo snuffled slightly before curling a no-doubt sticky hand into Bilbo’s waistcoat.

“Quite well behaved. He and my Timmo get on quite well as you know,” Tansy Proudfoot smiled. “It was so good of you to take the little scamp in.”

“Not at all,” replied Bilbo. “Even if I wasn’t head of the Baggins family, Drogo was one of my favourite cousins. He was always sure to have all his affairs in order, so I knew from before little Frodo was born that if anything were to happen to dear Drogo and Primula that I needed to step up. And I’ve not regretted doing so for even a moment,” he said firmly. Confirmed bachelor he might be, but as far as he saw it, that had very little to do with whether he had the capacity to take care of a child.

It had taken the better part of a year before some of the nosier and more interfering hobbits had accepted this (or at least found fresher fodder for gossip) and he would be damned if he let even a well-meaning type like Tansy think for a second that he was not willing to take care of his little cousin.

Tansy, understanding the reasons for his firmness, and respecting them, took no offense at his tone.

“Peace, Mister Baggins. I meant no offense.”

Bilbo sighed and were his hands not full of tiny sleeping hobbit, he would have raked his fingers through his hair.

“Sorry, I just…” Bilbo suddenly had an idea. “I had a run-in with Gandalf today.”

“Gandalf…” Tansy tested the name on her lips, and then her eyes widened. “Not the wizard Gandalf?”

“The very same,” Bilbo sighed. “He wants me to go on an adventure, apparently.”

“But!” Tansy Proudfoot looked aghast. “You can’t! What about Frodo?” she demanded in a whisper.

“I told him I wasn’t interested,” Bilbo replied firmly, “but I’m not sure if he was listening.”

Tansy Proudfoot scowled. “Of course he wasn’t. Dratted meddler.”

“Either way,” Bilbo continued, carefully hiding a smirk at her predictable reaction, “I invited him to tea tomorrow, in the hopes that if he actually _sees_ why I can’t go, he’ll leave me be,” he said, gently stroking a few errant curls away from Frodo’s face.

Tansy Proudfoot watched this scene, and then nodded firmly to herself. “You leave it to me, Mister Baggins. I’ll pass the word around. If you need any help turfing him out on his wrinkly behind, just holler, and I’ll have half the Shire up in arms on your behalf.”

Bilbo smiled genuinely. “Thank you, Mistress Proudfoot. You know I don’t like to be a bother, but sometimes…”

“Sometimes you just need a little helping hand,” she said. “Don’t you worry Mister Baggins, I’ll just go visit my good friend Bell Gamgee, and between the two of us, we’ll get the word out. If nothing else, maybe some young buck will hear that there’s an adventure to be had, and step up in your place. Those Tookish cousins of yours are usually looking for a bit of excitement.”

Bilbo thanked her again, and then ushered her out the door.

He then moved to put little Frodo down on his bed, but naturally, it was then that little blue eyes popped sleepily open, to be rubbed with the back of one hand.

“Nuncle Bilbo?” Frodo mumbled.

“Yes, Frodo. I’m just about to put together some lunch. Are you hungry?”

Of course, the answer was yes.

“Alright then, let’s get you a bit cleaned up first, and then you can watch your poor Uncle Bilbo cook for a horde.”

Frodo blinked drowsily. “Wassa horde?”

“A large group of unwelcome people,” Bilbo said, stretching the definition a little to keep it appropriate for tiny hobbit ears. “But you know, it’s very important that guests are always received with courtesy, no matter how unwelcome they might be.”

Frodo wrinkled his nose a little at that, but then toddled out to wash his hands and feet at the basin in the washroom.

Bilbo sighed a little at the mud that was being tracked across his floors, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to. Having a small, curious (but nonetheless delightful) child about the place had quickly taught him to not fret about the small things like a bit of dirt that could be easily swept away, (unlike the ink that Frodo had managed to find, spill and make tiny handprints on the floor and wall of Bilbo’s study, some of which Bilbo had been unable to remove and so had covered with careful placement of a rug and a bookcase,) and to keep valuables and breakables out of reach from tiny sticky fingers.

Frodo came wandering back into the room, now damp, instead of muddy, and looked at him accusingly.

“Nuncle Bil-bo,” he said in an aggrieved sing-song. “You said there’d be _lunch_.”

Bilbo snorted, and ruffled Frodo’s hair on the way to the kitchen.

“Alright, don’t get your toes in a tangle. Let’s see if I can’t rustle us up something. Then you can taste-test what I cook for our company tomorrow, and make some animals from dough for me. That sound alright?”

Frodo considered this, then nodded, thumb firmly in his mouth.

Bilbo smiled. “Alright then.”

And then the two of them proceeded to have a lovely afternoon, completely free from wizards with upsetting ideas.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin is a little surprised.

It had been quite a while since Dwalin had had reason to be near the Shire, but the last time he had visited, he had been met with a little suspicion, but mostly wary good cheer. So he was a little surprised at the expressions he got when he asked for directions to Bag End.

“What business do you have there, Master Dwarf?” a stout hobbit who looked to be a farmer asked him bluntly.

“My own,” Dwalin replied rather stiffly. He noted that the hobbits in earshot appeared thoroughly unimpressed by this. Not wanting any trouble, and needing those directions, he decided to elaborate, “I intend to be on my way tomorrow morning, and I swear on my honour that I do not mean to disturb anybody.”

The farmer eyed him a little suspiciously, but nodded, apparently satisfied with that.

“You just see that you keep your word,” he said with a stern tone, before explaining where Dwalin had to go to get to the green door that the Wizard insisted he had marked.

Dwalin was caught somewhere between offense and feeling mildly impressed. Hobbits weren’t generally known for being confrontational, and he was nothing if not an intimidating-looking dwarf. The fact that the farmer had made such a point of not giving him directions before he had extracted the oath from him spoke of greater courage than he might have expected.

A few minutes later, and he had found the right door.

He knocked on it.

“One moment!” he heard a voice call.

The door creaked open then, and for a moment, Dwalin thought that it had opened on its own.

Then he looked down, and saw the tiny hobbit babe looking up at him with unblinking blue eyes, a well-loved soft Olliphaunt dangling from one hand.

It had been a long time since he had seen such a tiny creature- dwarflings that small were generally kept within the family home, the better to protect them whilst they were so vulnerable.

Dwalin bent down to get a better look at him, and was bemused, (and a little pleased- he secretly loved children,) to see that Frodo looked to be unintimidated.

“Hello little one. What’s your name?”

“Frodo? Where are… oh.”

Dwalin looked up to see a slightly harassed-looking male hobbit walking over to scoop up the child.

“Frodo! What have I told you about answering the door without me?”

The child, (Frodo apparently,) replied promptly, “if it’s a Sackville-Baggins, then we’re not home.”

The parent looked like he was resisting the urge to facepalm.

Dwalin, remembering Fili and Kili at that age, resisted the urge to snicker, and shared a sympathetic look with the adult hobbit over Frodo’s curly head.

“I meant the other thing,” he sighed.

“Oh,” said Frodo. “Not to answer to strangers?” he hazarded, though ‘strangers’ sounded closer to ‘stwangers’ with his childish pronunciation.

“Yes, that would be the one.”

Instant sad puppy expression. “Sorry Nuncle Bilbo.”

‘Nuncle Bilbo’ rolled his eyes. “No harm done this time. Now go and play in your room for a little bit with Ollie. Company seems to have started arriving and I don’t want you getting trodden on.”

Having received a solemn nod in reply, he put Frodo down, and the little hobbit quickly scampered off.

“Your son?” Dwalin asked, curious.

The hobbit shook his head. “My ward. Technically a cousin, but I’ve been calling him my nephew to save confusion. Poor little mite lost his parents only a little over two years ago, and I’m the one who takes care of him.” He blinked. “Sorry, where are my manners? Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“Dwalin, Son of Fundin, at yours,” Dwalin replied with a slight bow. He shrugged off his coat. “Anywhere I can put this?” he asked, stepping forward.

“Are you one of Gandalf’s party?” Bilbo asked, holding his ground.

Dwalin looked at him oddly. Technically it was Thorin’s party, after all.

“Yes.”

He was surprised to see how exasperated Bilbo looked at this statement, but since his host then quickly directed him to leave his things in the hall cupboard, and then proceeded to usher him into the kitchen, Dwalin decided that the exasperation was probably not aimed at him.

Once Dwalin had been settled with a plate full of teacake and a mug of coffee, Bilbo decided that now was as good a time as any to start laying down some groundwork.

“So, my first question is, how many of you should I be expecting?” Bilbo asked. “Because I’ll be blunt, the only person I know for sure to be showing up at some point is Gandalf.”

Dwalin blinked. Well that explained the look of exasperation. He could only imagine how upset he would be if he had to cater to an unknown number of strangers.

“Then you have no idea why I’m here?”

Bilbo shook his head. “Something about an adventure that Gandalf seems intent on me going on. I don’t even know where or for what purpose.” He shrugged helplessly. “I told him no, but he wasn’t listening. I invited him to tea, because I was hoping that once he realised I have to take care of Frodo, he would back off. He never said anyone else was coming, I just assumed that they would be, since he seemed to be going out of his way to throw me off balance, and there’s no way to better get a hobbit on the back foot than to inundate him with surprise guests.”

Dwalin frowned. “So he just walked up to you, told you he wanted you for an adventure, and then expected you to what, just agree? Without knowing any of the details?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Honestly I have not the slightest idea. As it happens, as soon as he said ‘adventure’ I turned him down flat. That and the fact that I didn’t immediately recognise him seemed to upset him, and he didn’t seem to be ready to listen to why I didn’t want to go. Three years ago, I _might_ have considered hearing him out. But now?”

As if on cue, Frodo wandered out.

“’M hungry.”

“Alright Fauntling, I’ll sit you down at your little table here in the corner, and you can have some cake.”

Frodo, however, had other ideas, as he made a beeline for Dwalin, and then proceeded to attempt to clamber into the dwarf’s lap.

Bilbo bit his lip a little anxiously, but Dwalin was unbothered (in fact, he was a little pleased,) and helped Frodo get settled.

“Better view up here, isn’t it?” Dwalin stated rhetorically, watching Bilbo watch him out the corner of his eye. He tried to shoot the worried uncle a reassuring glance, but Bilbo didn’t smile.

Meanwhile, Frodo nodded solemnly in response to Dwalin’s question, and proceeded to make a grab for the nearest bit of seedcake.

“Frodo! Wait a moment and I’ll get you your own plate! No need to take Mr. Dwalin’s!”

Dwalin chuckled.

“It’s fine. He reminds me a little of my cousin Dis’ children from when they were his age. You’ll meet them tonight. Fili and Kili are their names. Good lads. Kili only recently came of age, so he’s excited to be allowed to go with us.”

“So that’s three others coming- Fili and Kili was it?- and Gandalf. How many others?” Bilbo asked.

Dwalin tallied up the names, and winced.

Considering that Bilbo had had no real indication that they were coming apart from a gut feeling…

“Thirteen dwarves in total and one wizard.”

Bilbo breathed in slowly, and then breathed out slowly.

“Frodo-child, cover your ears.”

“Why?” Frodo tilted his head, displaying a mess of cake crumbs already smeared all over his face.

“Because Uncle Bilbo is going to say some rather unkind words, and I would prefer you not learn them until your legs are long enough to outrun your grandmother when she tries to pinch your ear for saying them.”

Frodo seemed to consider this, and then obediently plugged his ears.

Dwalin merely raised his eyebrows as Bilbo began to rant, starting with “soft-footed,” and “peace-disturbing,” before moving onto sceptical questions as to the condition of Gandalf’s sanity, and where he might have learnt his manners and then finishing with “ _meddlesome_ _wizards_!” with the last said as though it was the gravest of insults. He wouldn’t have thought the hobbit had it in him.

At this point, there came a knock on the door.

Bilbo, still coming down from his irritation, opened it.

When the visitor turned out to be a grey-bearded dwarf, instead of a grey-bearded wizard, Bilbo managed to rein in his irritation enough to be polite, (“Balin, at your service,” “Bilbo, at yours”) and walked him into the kitchen.

“Here, make yourself comfortable. Would you like coffee? Tea?” Bilbo disappeared into the pantry.

“Dwalin!” Balin exclaimed.

“Hello brother. I’d get up, but,” he nodded to the small crumb-covered being in his lap.

Balin’s eyebrows shot up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the company shows up, and Bilbo says his piece. (Frodo helps.) The dwarves are unimpressed with Gandalf's recruitment strategy, and Gandalf figures out that he might have made a miscalculation.

“Dwalin… why do you seem to have acquired a baby hobbit?” Balin asked slowly, as the small being made what to Balin looked to be a valiant attempt at eating his own bodyweight in seedcake.

Dwalin seemed unbothered by the spray of crumbs. Dwalin, Balin reflected, had always had a soft spot for the younglings. Especially younglings who weren’t intimidated by his gruff exterior (which really, was most of them, Balin thought, since younglings seemed to have an innate tendency to be able to tell when someone liked them).

“Balin, this is Frodo. Frodo, would you like to introduce yourself to my brother?”

Frodo looked up, considered Balin gravely, and then said something that sounded to Balin like, “Fwodo Baggin at your serfice!” complete with a little bow.

Balin bowed back somewhat absently. He could see why Dwalin was so taken with the little thing. The baby hobbit was more adorable than a basket of puppies.

“The Burglar’s child?” he asked Dwalin.

Dwalin nodded. “His ward. Balin,” he said more quietly. “The wizard has not been entirely honest.”

Balin frowned.

“How so?”

“Well for a start,” Dwalin said, “the hobbit had no warning that we were coming, other than a brief meeting with the wizard yesterday that ended in an invitation for tea for the wizard only. He had no idea that we were coming, and it was only because he realised that he had upset the wizard that he assumed that there would be others.”

Balin blinked.

“Gandalf was saying that the Burglar would be more than happy to provide hot meals and beds for all!” he exclaimed.

“Well it’s not that I’m _not_ happy or able to do so,” Bilbo interjected dryly as he re-entered the room with a large tea-pot, “it’s just that it’s generally considered polite to tell someone when you’re inviting plus ones, or for that matter plus thirteens, over to their house for tea.” He sat down, and poured himself and Balin a cup. “Us hobbits take hospitality seriously, but it’s not like I’m running an inn here, so that I can whip up a feast with no warning whatsoever. You both are just lucky that I decided to prepare for the worst, because irritated wizards tend to have little sense of proportion when it comes to trying to throw one off balance.” He paused, a thought occurring to him. “And what do you mean, ‘Burglar’?”

Balin started to feel a distinct sinking sensation.

“Let me guess. You’ve never stolen a thing in your life,” he stated.

Bilbo snorted.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, we were all fauntlings once, but somehow I doubt that pies from windowsills or vegetables from Farmer Maggot’s field are generally seen as something approaching professional burglary. There was that one time in more recent memory that I stole my mother’s silver spoons back from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, but _honestly_.” He shook his head. “And frankly, even if I _was_ a burglar, I have Frodo to look after, so I can’t just go traipsing off into the Blue,” he scowled. “Especially not without making arrangements to take care of my business. I’m a landlord and an employer. It would be beyond irresponsible to just rush off without telling anyone.”

“Does Gandalf know?” Balin asked, noting how ‘the Fauntling’ was listening to every word they were saying with eyes that clearly comprehended their conversation. Bright little thing.

“About Frodo?” Bilbo shrugged. “I didn’t tell him, because he wasn’t listening to me. It’s hardly a secret though. I daresay if he bothered to talk to any hobbit in the last three years who knew me, then they would have told him unprompted. I have a suspicion than he made a number of assumptions about me based on what he knew about me as a child, and what he knew about my mother, and then decided that a Tookish Baggins would be just the ticket for a spot of adventure. If I didn’t have responsibilities, then perhaps I even would have considered it, but…” his eyes darkened. “It’s not that no other hobbits would take care of him if I asked, but he already lost one set of parents. I couldn’t… I just, I can’t…” Bilbo trailed off as Frodo left Dwalin’s lap to slip under the table and make a beeline for his uncle’s. Bilbo carefully set his tea aside, and hugged his nephew as he scrambled up his legs. He held him, almost too tightly, momentarily burying his face in Frodo’s curls.

Balin just nodded, politely ignoring the hobbit’s distress.

“Understandable,” he murmured.

In regards to what this meant for the quest, Balin was not exactly ecstatic. On the one hand, it sounded like Gandalf was playing games, which Balin did _not_ appreciate. Specifically since it indicated to him that Gandalf was not taking this all seriously.

On the other hand, if Gandalf _was_ being serious about the hobbit being the best candidate, then the fact that he was flatly refusing to even contemplate coming was not exactly ideal for their goals.

Why _was_ Gandalf so sure that they needed _this_ hobbit anyway? Balin was mostly receptive towards the logic of the argument Gandalf had for recruiting _a_ hobbit- quiet, sneaky, not familiar in scent to Smaug- but having actually met this hobbit, he had little idea as to why this was supposedly the best candidate for the job. Was it honestly just because Gandalf had apparently had successful dealings with the hobbit’s mother? That seemed a little irresponsible. (Balin was almost certain Gandalf’s lassez-faire persona was mostly smoke and mirrors, but at times like this, he wondered.)

Could it really be true that the good of the quest could hinge entirely on _this_ hobbit joining them?

No. Balin refused to believe that. If Bilbo Baggins refused to sign the contract, then they simply would have to find someone else. Balin sincerely doubted that of all the hobbits in the Shire, only one could possibly help them.

“So just to clarify,” he said, suspecting he already knew the answer, “if I were to offer you a 14th share in a dragon’s hoard of treasure in potential reward for coming on an adventure, then you would…?”

“Laugh in your face,” responded Bilbo promptly, still holding Frodo close. “Possibly hysterically. Ignoring the part where, correct me if I’m wrong, you would be somehow expecting me to get past the dragon to get to said treasure, there’s the part where I have little interest in treasure for treasures’ sake, I’m quite well-off for a hobbit, and I’m not leaving Frodo.”

Balin sighed. Well at least that much had been cleared up.

It was at this point there was a knock on the door.

Bilbo moved to rise, but Dwalin waved him down.

“No, you sit, you don’t want to dislodge the little one,” he said. “I’ll make sure whoever it is knows where to put their things.”

Bilbo nodded, pressing his face close to Frodo’s curls as he breathed slowly and worked to compose himself. It was bad enough that he wasn’t doing his guests the courtesy of meeting them at the door, but he would be mortified if they actually saw him so discomposed as his first impression.

Two voices carolled, “Fili and Kili at your- what, Dwalin?!”

Dwalin’s voice rumbled something that was too low for Bilbo to make out, but then a few moments later, two young dwarves who looked to be a little younger than he was (though in actual fact they were no doubt quite a bit older, knowing how dwarves were rather longer-lived than hobbits) came tripping through the door.

Bilbo hitched Frodo up onto one hip, and stood up to greet them. “I am Bilbo Baggins, and this is Frodo. At your service,” he introduced himself.

Both boys rushed to introduce themselves, and ended up talking over the top of each other. Bilbo managed to not laugh, but it was a near thing. He ascertained after a bit that the blonde dwarf with the braids in his moustache was Fili, and the dark-haired one with only barely a beard was Kili.

Bilbo directed them towards food, and was pleased to see how much they enjoyed his cooking, albeit a little perturbed to see what they considered to be appropriate table manners. Frodo watched them with wide and fascinated eyes, and they both watched him right back. (Bilbo just hoped that he wouldn’t start emulating the food throwing anywhere his great-aunts could see… well, perhaps apart from Auntie Donnamira. She would probably find it hilarious.)

To Bilbo’s mild amusement, he heard Kili making what he no doubt thought was a quiet observation about how adorable Frodo was to Fili (“Look at those eyes! And those feet! He’s just, awwww Fili…”) with Fili nodding in agreement.

Bilbo was starting to notice a bit of a pattern here. Apparently dwarves were suckers for tiny fauntlings.

Sooner than he could blink, it seemed, more knocks were occurring at the door.

This time, Bilbo went to open it, still balancing Frodo his hip, and found a further five dwarves at his door.

“Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, at your service,” he said with a bow, swinging Frodo down and up with him to make him giggle.

“Well that’s a strapping young lad!” exclaimed one whose hair and beard were bright red. “Gloin, son of Groin, and this is my brother Oin. At your service, and your family’s. Is that your son?”

Bilbo explained once more that Frodo was his nephew, whom he was the caretaker of, and then was introduced to the other three, Dori, Nori and Ori. Bilbo quickly directed them all towards where the food was, and Dori fairly cooed over Frodo, especially when he hid his face a little shyly against Bilbo’s shoulder. Gloin on the other hand started sharing anecdotes about his own son, Gimli, with occasional loud interjections from Oin whenever he thought the embellishing was getting too exaggerated (“My nephew is a good stout lad, but he never could lift that axe when he was only 10. More like 20!”) Most of them were pretty funny, and Bilbo shared a few of his own experiences he had had in raising Frodo.

After a while, Frodo became tired of being cooed over, and climbed down to sit under the table, where Bilbo was amused to note multiple dwarves were slipping him bits of cake and other tasty tidbits.

Dori looked somewhere between disappointed and resigned, and his brothers were both snickering at him whilst they “snuck” bits off their plates and under the table. (If they thought they were being subtle, Bilbo thought privately, he might understand why they needed a member of another race to do their burgling for them.)

A short while after that, and there were more people at the door. Frodo seemed happy enough under the table, so Bilbo left him there for the moment. He was glad he had when he pulled the door open only to have three dwarves fall flat on top of him, whilst Gandalf, the menace, stood back and chuckled, saying, “Carefully! Carefully! It is not like you, Bilbo, to keep friends waiting on the mat, and then open the door like a pop-gun! Let me introduce Bifur, Bofur and Bombur!”

Bilbo was distinctly unimpressed.

“Oh, and I suppose it’s completely normal to be ambushed and squashed upon opening one’s front door, is it?” he snarked. Seeing that the dwarves appeared to be rather embarrassed, especially Bombur, he relented and accepted their apologies, ushering them inside.

Gandalf set himself quite smugly in the corner, and called for a glass of wine, as the dwarves fell on the food Bilbo had provided in no little delight.

“It’s a very good spread you’ve provided here,” said the largest one, who Bilbo remembered was named Bombur.

Bifur, who had salt and pepper hair and the somewhat alarming feature of an axehead embedded in his skull, made a few gestures in sign language, which his cousin Bofur cheerfully translated as meaning that he agreed with Bombur.

“Why thank you,” Bilbo responded. “You’re very welcome. I was worried that it wouldn’t be adequate, you see, _someone_ neglected to tell me that I was going to have thirteen dwarves at my table. I only found out the numbers for sure when Dwalin came, and I asked him.”

The table, which only moments before had been a little raucous, quietened down significantly.

“Is that true, Gandalf?” Bombur asked him, sounding more than a little perturbed.

Gandalf looked distinctively shifty.

“Well, I just thought if I… eased him into it, he would be more amenable when it came to hosting all of you.”

Bilbo was interested to note that most of the dwarves seemed to be somewhat uneasy with this explanation. Balin however seemed to have been expecting to hear something like this, and the dwarf with his hair arranged up in three points (Nori, Bilbo remembered his name was,) had a gleam of understanding.

Bilbo was however wholly unimpressed with Gandalf’s reasoning.

“Gandalf, I’m a hobbit. More than that, I’m related to the Tooks. You really think I’m not used to hosting large parties? If you had asked it as a favour in my mother’s name, then I would have been mostly annoyed at the fact that you gave me so little notice. I’ve seen how all these dwarves have been eating. This is the first decent meal most of you have had in a while, yes?”

General noises of assent and nodding heads.

“Then I’m more than happy to have been the one to provide it. But really Gandalf, you can’t have it both ways. If I wasn’t used to hosting large parties, then my pantries would have been significantly emptier. As it was, I _barely_ could have provided food for all of these people, if I hadn’t figured out the fact that you were trying to put me off balance enough to do something ridiculous and spontaneous like, oh, ‘go on an adventure.’”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged dark looks with Oin and Gloin, whom they had quietly got up to speed in between enjoying their feast. Regaining Erebor had been reduced to ‘going on an adventure’? What kind of romanticized twaddle was that? And it was pretty plain that the sign on the door ‘Burglar wants a good job, plenty of Excitement and reasonable Reward’ couldn’t be further from the truth.

Gloin decided now would be a good time to ask. “So, it wasn’t you who put that sign on the door?”

The hobbit looked blank. “What sign?” Then he spotted Gandalf looking shifty.

“Bloody hills Gandalf!” Bilbo swore in exasperation. “I just painted that door not a week ago! What on Yavanna’s green earth possessed you?!” Bilbo took a deep, calming breath. The dwarves had fallen silent, watching as though this was a stage show, and whilst he had their attention, he decided to make his position as clear as possible, before Gandalf could start doing whatever it was the wizard did to get his own way.

“Gandalf, I’m not sure who you expected me to be, but I’m telling you now, I’m not the hobbit for this adventure. I don’t know what it is all about, but that’s irrelevant. The details are not going to convince me. I’m no burglar, and even if I was, I can’t leave the Shire.”

Gandalf was starting to look significantly put out.

“If I say you are a Burglar, then a Burglar you are!” he started to thunder, causing all in the room to cringe.

Almost all.

“Nuncle Bilbo isn’t going on your adventure,” piped up a tiny voice from the entranceway.

Heads swiftly turned to see who had spoken, the dwarves who had not been introduced to Frodo yet looking shocked.

Bilbo knew that it was Frodo who had spoken up, (he must have crawled out from under the table and wandered off, Bilbo realised) but did a double-take when he saw the rather distinguished-looking dwarf carrying him.

Bilbo resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. He could only assume that once again Frodo had opened the front door to a stranger. Ah well. Something to work on later.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf greeted. “And who… is this?”

Bilbo quickly stepped forward and collected his nephew from the arms of the dwarf. He was gratified to note that even though this Thorin character was wearing chainmail and looking almost as warlike as Dwalin, like Dwalin, he had clearly been taking care to be gentle with the little hobbit.

 “Gandalf, this is my nephew and ward, Frodo. I’m his sole guardian since his parents died a few years ago.”

 “Nuncle Bilbo can’t go on an adventure. He’s gots to stay and look after me,” Frodo said bluntly, bottom lip sticking out and arms folded.

Bilbo tried not to smirk, as Gandalf rather looked as though the wind had been taken out of his sails.

 “So this is the hobbit,” Thorin said in a deceptively mild tone.

Bilbo wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he nodded slightly in acknowledgement, then turned back to the wizard.

“Oh,” said Gandalf, finally, in a much softer voice than before. “Well this was unexpected.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin had a few preconceptions about how the meeting with the burglar would go. Meeting Frodo threw them all off entirely. (Thorin is not disappointed by this.)

Thorin Oakenshield was having a thoroughly discouraging week. Being King to an exiled people of refugees who were barely scraping by, and doing his best to settle their problems and disputes was not generally an easy or uplifting occupation, so discouraging weeks tended to flow together into dismal months and depressing years, with only the occasional flashes of cheer and optimism, dug out like miniscule diamonds from a mountain of coprolite.

But when  _Tharkun_  the wizard had come to him, telling him that it was time to take back Erebor, that for the first time, a non-dwarf was willing to help him and his people regain what they had lost… Thorin had done something that he was starting to think might be a mistake.

He had started to hope.

However, before the journey could even properly begin…

He had hoped to gain aid from Iron Hills.

He had hoped to find more than twelve other dwarves who were willing to come on a desperate gamble.

He had hoped that his nephews would stay behind.

He had hoped that his sister would not be furious with him for deciding to let them come when they insisted.

He had hoped that the wizard would be forthright with him.

Thorin had been disappointed a lot lately.

Still, perhaps he was foolish.

Still, he hoped.

He hoped that this time, finally, after all these years, with  _Tharkun_  the wizard on their side, it would be possible.

Possible to defeat Smaug.

Possible to take back Erebor.

Possible to take back the treasure.

Possible to bring his people back to prosperity.

He was used to having his hopes disappointed, but the possibilities made the risks worth the attempt.

The thing though about having one's hopes disappointed on a regular basis, was that one started to become a little cynical about the possibility of being pleasantly surprised.

So when  _Tharkun_  insisted that the fourteenth member (and Thorin had not been slow to note that the wizard refused to be counted as the fourteenth in their company- the potential implications of what  _that_  meant did not improve the optimism of his outlook) had to be a particular hobbit, Thorin was suspicious. His previous dealings with hobbits had done little to endear them to him. As a whole they tended to be insular, mistrustful of outsiders, and tended to be interested in things that Thorin considered to be entirely frivolous. They rarely left the Shire, and from what he could see, that was the only sensible way that the hobbits could survive in the world. They were a soft people, who knew little of the world outside their Shire, and who considered the way of the warrior to be below their dignity.

It was a marvel to Thorin that such a people could survive. A small part of him (and he would never admit this aloud) even envied them. How nice it must be to be so blissfully ignorant of the evils of the world, to think that such things never crossed the boundaries of home.

So when  _Tharkun_  had told him that the quest could not possibly succeed without taking one of these soft, silly, intentionally helpless beings along with him, to say that Thorin had doubts was an understatement.

So it was, that when Thorin finally managed to make his way to the green door marked with the etching that the wizard said would be there, he was intending on being intentionally difficult. He wanted to test the hobbit. Determine if this "Bilbo Baggins" had anything real to offer his company, beyond the wizard's say-so.

So when he knocked on the door, already thoroughly irritated by how long it had taken him to navigate through the labyrinth of hobbit holes (and completely unhelpful locals, even less friendly than normal, and Thorin was starting to wonder if someone from his company had managed to upset them on their way through, and  _what in Mordor they had done_ , because he was pretty sure that the hobbits had been actually  _glaring_  at him, which was downright disconcerting from a people who generally seemed to him to be about as threatening as a colony of rabbits) he had calculated his first impression to be intimidating.

The door swung open, and to Thorin's surprise, his best glare (the one that could stop his rowdy nephews dead in their tracks at twenty paces) met air.

So who had opened the door?

He looked from side to side.

"Frodo Baggins, at your service," said a small young voice.

He looked down.

Oh.

Well that was unexpected.

"Thorin Oakenshield, at yours and your family's," he responded, immediately dropping the glare, (intimidating younglings was beneath him,) as he looked down into wide blue eyes that peeked through a dark fringe of curls.

"Your name doesn't rhyme with any of the others," the little hobbit commented, cocking his head to one side like a small bird.

Thorin blinked.

"No, no it doesn't." And that still hurt, even all these years after Frerin had fallen (not that the runes that made up his and Frerin's names rhymed anyway, but it wasn't about how the names sounded aloud, it was about the shared kinship runes used for writing them). He crouched down so that he was eye level with the tiny hobbit, like he had with his nephews when they were a similar size, and decided to change the subject.

"Is Bilbo Baggins your father?" he asked. It seemed to be a logical conclusion.

The little hobbit's brow crinkled. "No. Ma and Pa drownded. Nuncle Bilbo's my nuncle. He takes care of me."

Oh. Thorin felt his heart drop into his boots. How cruel life was, to deprive this youngling of his parents at such a tender age. It did not matter that he had seen such things countless times before. Common tragedies were not less tragic for being common (rather the opposite, really).

Thorin wondered how it was that this burglar could justify leaving such a young one behind, to come on their quest.

"Nuncle Bilbo doesn't want to go," said Frodo, and Thorin realised that he must have muttered the last part aloud.

Thorin felt his brows raise.

"Indeed?" That was not what the wizard had said.

"The mean wizard came and wouldn't listen to Nuncle Bilbo when he said no, but Nuncle Bilbo said that he was going to say no again and  _make_  the wizard listen, 'cause the wizard doesn't know that Nuncle Bilbo has to look after me, 'cause the wizard wasn't  _listening_ ," Frodo babbled, and Thorin was appalled to see that the youngling was on the edge of tears.

"Come here little one, shhh," he said, automatically falling into the old patterns of behaviour he had used when Fili and Kili had been distressed (like learning how to swim, once you learned how, you never forgot). He gathered the little hobbit into his arms, and picked him up, whispering that things were going to turn out alright (Thorin might be a cynic, but he wasn't cruel enough to think such a trait was worthy of cultivating in younglings, who were supposed to be protected from such things).

Thorin hated seeing younglings upset. It brought back horrible memories, of times on the road when it had been barely possible to fill their bellies, let alone keep them warm, or safe. Too many of Erebor's remnants were orphans, due to Smaug, the hardships of the road, and the ill-fated battle that had cost Thorin his grandfather and brother, and far too many dwarflings even with parents had died or failed to thrive. As one of the Royal Line of Durin, Thorin felt that it was his duty to do what he could to prevent his people pain, but he was only one dwarf.

He hated feeling so powerless.

This situation at least, he thought, as he gently rocked the little hobbit until he calmed, was something that he could do something about.

And it would kill two orcs with one arrow, as he would ensure that no soft reluctant hobbit would be joining his party and creating a liability for them to protect all the way to the dragon's doorstep.

Thorin was not above taking advantage of situations, especially when it created mutual benefit for all sides.

"You know what," said Thorin, thinking quickly, "I would wager that if  _you_  spoke to the wizard, then you would be able to convince him that your Uncle Bilbo needs to stay here with you." After all, it was hard to miss the existence of a youngling when they were right there telling you off. (Also, Thorin had the sneaking suspicion that  _Tharkun_ 's face when confronted by the little hobbit was going to be highly entertaining. Thorin was also not above lending a helping hand to any in a position to take someone as smug as the grey wizard down a few pegs.)

The little hobbit looked up at him with shiny eyes, but Thorin was somewhat impressed to see that no tears had fallen. Tough little one. Thorin approved.

"I want to tell him  _now_ ," said Frodo with emphasis. "Nuncle Bilbo has been worried. I don't like it when people make Nuncle Bilbo worried."

Thorin smiled crookedly. "Very well. Let's go then, shall we?"

And so it was that he entered the main room of the house with a tiny hobbit in his arms to see something that surprised him- an older hobbit (Bilbo Baggins, he presumed,) in the middle of giving the wizard a dressing-down.

It seemed like tonight was to be full of surprises. He was shocked that such a squishy-looking being (Thorin privately thought Baggins looked rather more like a grocer than a burglar) had the stones to stand up to a wizard like he was.

"Gandalf, I'm not sure who you expected me to be, but I'm telling you now, I'm not the hobbit for this adventure. I don't know what it is all about, but that's irrelevant. The details are not going to convince me. I'm no burglar," (Oho, thought Thorin, just as he had suspected,) "and even if I was, I can't leave the Shire," the hobbit insisted, waving his arms about in emphasis.

Thorin was unsurprised to see that the wizard did not take this well. Wizards, like most meddlers in Thorin's experience, who spent long hours thinking up plans tended to hate it when people refused to be manipulated into doing what they thought was right.  _Tharkun_  could talk about the greater good all he liked, Thorin knew he just hated it when he failed to get his own way. (Dis would no doubt have said something rude along the lines of "takes a stone-head to know a stone-head", but Thorin tried to ignore his inner Dis.)

"If I say you are a Burglar, then a Burglar you are!" the wizard shouted, and Thorin felt immediate instinctive alarm at the power underlying those words and what it could mean if it was unleashed.

(As much as  _Tharkun_ liked to pretend he was a harmless old man, Thorin, and anyone with half a brain and more than ten minutes in his acquaintance immediately knew better.)

"Nuncle Bilbo isn't going on your adventure," came the sudden voice, and everyone's gaze was suddenly on him, and the tiny hobbit in his arms.

(The tiny  _brave_  hobbit. Thorin was more than a little impressed. He was not entirely sure that  _he_  would have been able to stand up to the wizard's ire like that.)

Expressions ranging from impressed, to startled, to downright shocked. (Either not all the company had become acquainted with Frodo, or they could not believe that Thorin would pick up a youngling like this. Thorin was mildly insulted at the implications of the second possibility.)

"Thorin Oakenshield,"  _Tharkun_ greeted, looking rather like he had been slapped upside the head with a fish. (Thorin stored the expression in his memory to laugh at later. Privately, and as sure as he could possibly be that the wizard wouldn't know what it was about.)

"And who,"  _Tharkun_  questioned confusedly, "is this?"

The hobbit stepped forward and collected his nephew from Thorin's arms. Thorin might have been offended had the hobbit not provided him with a friendly, near grateful smile. Well. That was the happiest a hobbit had been to see him thus far this day.

How ironic.

Thorin watched as the hobbit introduced his nephew to the wizard, and Frodo took Thorin's advice.

"Nuncle Bilbo can't go on an adventure. He's gots to stay and look after me," he stated plainly, with a surprising amount of firmness for such a small being. (The little arms folded and the pout were a downright deadly combination. Looking about the room, Thorin could see that Frodo had managed to securely wrap most of the dwarves around his little finger within moments of meeting them.)

"So this is the hobbit," said Thorin. Neither of them, not the youngling, nor the burglar (or not, as the elder hobbit had said,) were at all what he had pictured. His admittedly low expectations had been rather dramatically exceeded.

(A very small part of him almost regretted that this Baggins would not be coming on the quest with them. He seemed like an interesting being.)

The hobbit responded to Thorin's words by nodding slightly in acknowledgement, then turning back to the wizard, leaving Thorin at his back. It had been a while since a non-dwarf had done so, and despite his impression of hobbits as being simple, ignorant creatures, he could not hold this against Baggins, rather taking the gesture for the signal of trust that it was. (He had not missed the assessing look when young Frodo had been taken from his arms, and he suspected had young Frodo not been so relaxed with Thorin, the reaction would have been significantly different.)

"Oh," said  _Tharkun_ , in a much softer voice than before. "Well this was unexpected."

Indeed, thought Thorin. On that point, he and the wizard were in complete agreement.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not appear in the original draft of this story. You can thank Hesperis (and Greysh, who asked for the same thing, but a little later when I had already started writing it) from fanfiction.net for its inclusion. I was originally going to just let the meeting between tiny!Frodo and Thorin stay in everyone's imaginations, but I was asked nicely, and then what was supposed to be a brief drabble from Thorin's POV turned into an entire parallel chapter. (I somehow doubt any of you are disappointed by this).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf owes Bilbo an apology. Someone else knocks at the door.

“I feel I owe you an apology,” Gandalf admitted as they stood back and watched the dwarves clear the table for their business.

“Yes, I rather believe that you do,” replied Bilbo firmly, watching with a little amusement as Frodo proceeded to continue thoroughly worming his way into the hearts of thirteen rather rough-looking dwarves. He might have been more concerned if it wasn’t for the fact that he had met Dwalin first, and the large dwarf had already made a point of stepping in before Bilbo had to when Fili and Kili had verged on being a little too exuberant. They had started some kind of plate juggling game now, but since Bilbo always kept the nicer china packed away (it had only taken one accidentally broken heirloom mug before he had learned the very important lesson that small children and breakables, especially precious breakables, did not mix well) he wasn’t overly bothered.

Frodo was watching the juggling with wide, impressed eyes.

“How you do _that_?” he demanded softly, eyes full of wonder.

(Bilbo, noting that the juggling was now also including knives and forks, privately wondered that too. It was incredible that the dwarves could do that without hurting themselves, but their obvious well-practised ease and their careful positioning to keep Frodo from being in the line of fire did a lot to reassure him.)

The one with the odd black hat with earflaps (Bofur) smiled at the wide-eyed little hobbit.

“We were on the road for a long time, before we got to the Blue Mountains,” he explained, “and juggling like this was one of the ways to entertain, keep hand-eye-coordination in shape, uh, that’s throwing skills,” he clarified when Frodo wrinkled his brow in confusion, “and to earn a few coins when villagers were properly impressed with our performance,” he said, casually catching and throwing back a number of plates as he talked. He then reached into his jacket and pulled out a little wooden carving. “Course, that’s not the only way I earn my keep. You like this one laddie?”

‘This one’ turned out to be a wooden figurine of a dwarf riding something. When Frodo gasped in delight and ran over to show it to his uncle, and Bilbo confirmed that the animal was a mountain goat.

“Why, that’s lovely!” he said, smiling at Bofur. If the dwarf was trying to butter him up after the whole ‘not exactly invited guests’ debacle, it was working. “Did you thank the nice gentledwarf?”

Frodo scampered over to do just that. Bilbo was amused at the shade of pink the gruff-looking dwarf proceeded to go at the enthusiastic gratitude he was receiving.

“So you do understand why I turned you down flat?” Bilbo said, returning to his conversation with Gandalf. It was best to confirm that the wizard knew where he stood. He noted that the last dwarf to have joined them, (Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo remembered) was avidly listening to them. Bilbo was not quite able to interpret his expression, but was glad that this dwarf (whom the others seemed to defer to) seemed to be paying attention to their conversation, because it increased the likelihood that _someone_ was listening to what he was saying.

“Yes, well, now that I have been… updated as to your circumstances, I can see why you were… less than receptive to my proposal,” Gandalf responded cagily.

Bilbo shot him a sharp look.

“I’m not going Gandalf, and that’s final,” he asserted bluntly.

Gandalf however was looking distinctly not resigned to this state of affairs.

Well then.

Round one had gone to Gandalf.

Round two had gone to Bilbo, with a late assist from Frodo.

Time for Round three, and this time, Bilbo was ready.

“You should know that once a Baggins has made up his mind, he sticks to it, come dragon fire or high water,” Bilbo stated, not rhetorically, but because Gandalf _should_ know. Tales of Gandalf’s mischief with the hobbits of the Shire were generations old, (there was a _reason_ Bilbo had thought the wizard long gone,) and Bilbo knew for a fact that Gandalf had met a number of his ancestors over the decades. (Old Grandpa Baggins had a pretty funny story that involved himself, the wizard, a picnic, the then prospective Grandma Baggins, three pigs, and some of the mushrooms that grew out the back of the Bolger smial. He told it every Yuletide without fail.)   

Gandalf winced. “Well yes, but that was rather why I was hoping that I would be able to convince you to come on the quest. It would be invaluable to have someone with the Baggins backbone and the Tookish adaptability along, even before we get to the burglary,” he explained.

Bilbo snorted. “And you knew I had those qualities how? From meeting my mother, and me as a tiny faunt not much bigger than Frodo? For all you knew, in the intervening years I might have inherited the Baggins fussy dedication to propriety and the Tookish hot-headedness.”

“What’s all this talk of Baggins and Tookish?” asked Balin, interrupting them.

Bilbo decided to ignore the rudeness of someone just interjecting into their conversation, and shrugged. “Families in the Shire. It’s said that Bagginses are set in their ways and thus eminently reliable, if not a little dull, and Tooks are gregarious, wild and always up for a bit of fun. It was a bit of a scandal when my parents married, just because of that. Though really, I’m cousins in one way or another with pretty much every prominent family, since hobbits usually tend towards lots of children. My mother after all was one of twelve Took siblings.”

(Most of the dwarves in earshot didn’t bat an eyelash at this number, because they thought the hobbit was exaggerating. Gandalf could have told them otherwise, but they didn’t ask him, and he was rather preoccupied trying to think of how he could salvage his plan after such a gross miscalculation.)

“And what about you?” Balin questioned. “Do you have any siblings?”

Bilbo’s eyes darkened slightly. “None living.” He didn’t elaborate.

Balin, not being a fool, picked up on the subtext and decided to not press further.

It was then that another knock came on the door.

The dwarves fell suddenly silent.

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” Gandalf hissed to Thorin.

Thorin raised a regal eyebrow, and shook his head, pausing in shovelling what was left of the stew into his mouth. (The others had neglected to set any food aside for him, but fortunately the hobbit had somehow by some hobbit magic over-catered, so he was not about to go hungry.)

Bilbo, wondering what all the drama was about, peaked through the front window, smiled, and then opened the door.

“Crocus and Flam! How lovely to see you both!” Bilbo stepped back from the door, and the company inside could see two hobbits, who appeared to be husband and wife, judging by the way they unconsciously leaned into each other’s space. The two of them looked to be around the same age as Bilbo. Bilbo turned to the company and said, “This is my cousin Flambard Took, and his lovely wife Crocus, previously Hornblower.” The dwarves could see that Flambard was of very similar colouring to Bilbo. The more observant dwarves also noticed that though the couple were both smiling, both of them were tense.  “Would the two of you like a cup of tea?” Bilbo invited them.

“Thank you Bilbo, it’s kind of you to let us in so late,” replied Flambard, stepping inside and wiping his feet on the mat. “Especially when I can see you already have a number of _guests_ ,” he said, with a very slight emphasis on the word ‘guests’ that implied he was rather sceptical that that was what they were.

Few of those inside missed the implication. Those that had been paying attention when Bilbo had explained just how unexpected they were, felt more than a little uncomfortable.

“Nuncle Flam! Aunty Crokie!” Frodo wriggled out of Bifur’s lap (when had _that_ happened, Bilbo wondered,) and ran forward for a hug from his ‘uncles’. (Really, they were cousins, but ‘Uncle’ and ‘Aunty’ tended to be used more as a sign of intergenerational respect and affection in the Shire, and anyway, Frodo was far too young to really be expected to keep track of such things yet.)

“Frodo me boy!” Crocus grinned, and this time the expression reached her eyes. “You’re getting taller every time I see you!” She deftly hoisted the fauntling up onto her shoulders, a move that surprised the dwarves, because although Crocus was hardly thin (no self-respecting hobbit allowed themselves to become so if they could possibly help it) her build was significantly daintier than that of dwarven women.

“Now I’m taller than you!” Frodo announced rather smugly, flapping his fuzzy feet next to Crocus’s collarbones.

“Indeed you are,” she chuckled, keeping a hand on the fauntling’s back to steady him.

“Actually, Bilbo, if we couldn’t just have a word with you outside?” Flambard requested, putting his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders companionably. “Don’t mind us, we just want to talk to our cousin.”

Before anyone else inside could say anything, the four hobbits were out the door, with it shut smartly behind them.

“Well…” mused Dwalin. “That was rather neatly done.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ori, blinking.

His brother Nori snickered mirthlessly.

“Note how they managed to get the two of them outside within only a few moments of going in the door? I imagine that what’s happening just now is the Bagginses are being checked for injury or insult. If Mister Baggins has no desire to see us again, then that would be the last we see of him, or little Frodo, for that matter. Hobbits can be a rather suspicious lot, and like all races, they’re very protective of their young ones. I’m thinking Mister Baggins might have mentioned in passing to some hobbit or another that he wasn’t sure the wizard was going to take ‘no’ for an answer, so he called in some reinforcements,” the thief explained, the tone in his voice similar to a craftsman critiquing the work of a worthy rival colleague.

“You are not wrong,” said a voice.

The entire company jumped and spun to see an elderly hobbit leaning on a cane, backed by five burly-looking hobbits that appeared to be in some sort of uniform. Unlike all hobbits that the company had previously seen, these ones were conspicuously armed.

“Where’d you lot come from?” blinked Bofur.

“The back door,” replied the elderly hobbit rather dryly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could not help that last line. The irony tickled me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few of Bilbo's relatives stand up for him, and the dwarves start to buy a clue that peaceful =/= stupid or pushovers.

 

“Now gentledwarves and wizard,” announced the elderly hobbit, looking about the room with a level glare that would have made a basilisk proud, “as we are all civilised people here I am sure we can resolve this without violence. If you would all be so kind as to vacate my nephew’s house, then we should have no quarrel.”

The dwarves exchanged glances with one another, looking to Thorin for direction. Balin made a small hand-sign, and Thorin nodded his approval.

“Purely for academic purposes,” Balin said slowly, “what would happen if we decided we would prefer to quarrel?”

The elderly hobbit shrugged as though it was no matter to him, though the dwarves noted how the hands of the younger hobbits behind him inched towards slings and cudgels.

“Then we leave you here, but when you attempt to leave, the thirty bounders gathered outside would let loose their arrows on the first dwarven head they saw to poke around the door without a white flag of parley preceding it. Those willing to leave under parley would be escorted to the borders, and all dwarves intending on doing business with the Shire would be asked to look elsewhere until further notice.”

Several of the dwarves outright cringed at that statement. The Shire was one of the places in the region with the most surplus food to trade with the dwarves, and they were always willing to pay well for the work of a good smith- as much as hobbits were generally disinterested in fine jewels or golden trinkets, they were steady buyers of farm implements and cooking pots and whatnot. It was politely never mentioned that though the hobbits were appreciative of dwarven metalwork, they could live without it a great deal easier than the dwarves of the Blue Mountains could live without the food supplies and livestock they traded for it.

The silence stretched for a long moment, as all parties contemplated this.

“Now, now, Isembard, surely…” Gandalf started to say.

“That will not be necessary,” spoke up Thorin, drawing attention from the entire room as he stood up smoothly, wiping his face with one of Bilbo’s cloth napkins. “The wizard told us that we would be welcomed here. As it appears he has been  _less_  than honest,” he sent a glower in Gandalf’s direction, “then we will take our leave, rather than strain relations further. I apologise on the behalf of my company for causing distress, and wish to personally apologise to Mister Baggins for the imposition that was made due to false information and false assumptions.”

The elderly hobbit looked him up and down, and Thorin felt rather like he was being weighed and measured. It was not a sensation he had felt in the better part of a few decades, and it surprised him that a hobbit of all beings could make him feel like a dwarfling of forty once more.

“Isembard, really…” Gandalf tried again.

The elderly hobbit looked at him with a scowl. “Gandalf, you old coot. Let it go. You gambled, you tried to find a bit of entertainment- oh yes, don’t think I don’t remember how you are- after all, I haven’t forgotten that journey you talked me into going on with the rangers back when I was a callow lad of twenty-seven where you dropped me, without warning, in with their best archers and waited until I had thoroughly shoved both feet in my mouth about my own skills before they punctured my young swollen head quite firmly.” (Thorin and the elder dwarves exchanged wary glances. This sounded suspiciously in character for what they themselves had gathered was typical for dealing with the Grey Wizard.)

“ _And_ ,” Isembard continued, “I remember how you did the same in reverse, since they then learned I had a thing or six to show them about how to sneak about. I’ve never met someone you’ve dealt with who has not ended as being a generally more capable and useful person after the experience, but on occasion your sense of humour and delight in being the only one with all the answers tends to cause trouble for us lesser mortals in the short term. You quite enjoy dropping people in positions so that they can make a fool of themselves based on assumptions.” Isembard smirked in pure vindictive glee. “Well joke’s on you, old boy. You managed to fall for one of your own favourite set-ups. Turnabout is fair play and all that.”

Gandalf opened his mouth, paused, and then chuckled ruefully. “True enough, old friend. True enough.”

Isembard turned then, and looked Thorin Oakenshield in the eye.

“I do not know what madness it is that Gandalf intends to drag you along on, but you seem to be a reasonable enough sort.” He paused for a moment, considering. “How much of a rush are you in to get to wherever it is you all are going?”

Thorin was unsure why the hobbit was asking. “Our quest is for our people. We make due haste in the hopes that the sooner we succeed, the sooner we can begin rebuilding,” he said.

Isembard nodded thoughtfully. “Ah. I thought you might be  _that_  Thorin Oakenshield. So then. What exactly is your plan for getting past the dragon then?”

It was probably just as well, Thorin thought faintly, that the company had stopped eating a little while ago, because elsewise that comment might have caused thirteen dwarves to choke on their food.

Dwalin was the first to recover. “Dragon? Why would you think this has anything to do with a dragon?” he tried, but Isembard was having none of it.

“Do me the courtesy of not treating me like a fool,” Isembard scoffed. “Lilac Rumble recognised you from the last time you came through on your wandering smithing, and though  _she_  might not recognise the significance of your name, she mentioned it in passing to Clover Greenhand, who told my darling Melisande, who told me, and  _my_  father was Thain.” Thorin’s back, habitually stiff, straightened infinitesimally. He had not known that he was in the presence of someone who was the closest the Shire would ever come to a prince, and considering the way this elderly hobbit easily commanded the other hobbits at his back, Thorin knew that Isembard was not the type to have rested on the laurels of his bloodline. Isembard acted as one who was used to being respected, because he had  _earned_  it. (Thorin was self-aware enough to know that he acted the same.)

“And because he was Thain,” Isembard continued, “dear old Pater made it his business to know the goings-on about Middle Earth, because he considered such things to be like pond-ripples. He used to say that the Shire might be nice and sequestered from most of the world’s troubles, tucked away around near a sheltered edge of the pond, but if someone went and dropped a big enough rock, it wouldn’t matter how sheltered our corner was, we’d have to ride out the waves just like everyone else. And because that was how my old Pater thought, he made a point of making sure each and every one of his children also knew, so that we could be prepared when the waves came. Smaug attacking Erebor was no pebble, as you damn well know.” Isembard shook his head and turned to look directly at Thorin. “You try and tell me that this clandestine quest you and the old coot were intending on dragging my nephew along on,” (Balin immediately realised the implication- that Bilbo was the Thain’s grandson- and went a little pale behind his beard at the thought of just how much of a diplomatic mistake this might have ballooned into,) “and I will call you a liar, sir, king or not.”

 Isembard’s brow furrowed, and he glowered at the assembled dwarves. “We hobbits might be simple folk, with simple desires, but do not make the mistake of thinking us to be simple-minded as well.”

Thorin turned to glare accusingly at Gandalf, who seemed to have gotten over most of his shock, and seemed to have become stuck in rueful amusement. Thorin was unimpressed by this, and resolved that the very moment he did not have an audience, he and the wizard were going to have  _words_.

And from the expressions that the more politically astute of his company were shooting the wizard, (Balin of course, but also Dwalin, who was no fool, the Sons of Groin, Nori, and, to Thorin’s mild surprise, Ori and Fili and Kili – it seemed that Balin had picked a worthy apprentice after all, and he sometimes forgot that even though his nephews were troublemakers, they were far from slow on the uptake, Dis would be both smug and proud,) Thorin might not be alone in saying his piece.

He turned back to Isembard to respond to him, but Balin subtly stepped on his foot, so he allowed his most trusted advisor to have his way. (Probably just as well. Balin was far better at smoothing over ruffled feathers than Thorin had ever bothered to be.)

“My apologies, Mister Took,” Balin stated evenly. “I did not mean any offence.” He smiled wryly. “I’m sure you can imagine why we are not exactly paying the town crier to spread the news of our intentions however.”

Isembard merely made a harrumphing sound, clearly unimpressed.

Balin nodded politely, as though Isembard had made an eloquent comment (well, Thorin had to admit, he had got his meaning across rather succinctly,) and proceeded to remind Thorin why Balin was his favourite advisor… “In any case,  _Tharkun_ , the one you call Gandalf, assured us that your nephew would be capable of sneaking past Smaug to retrieve something that we need in order to reclaim Erebor,” …by throwing the wizard as a sacrificial goat to the increasingly irate-looking hobbit. “Because,” Balin continued, nailing the coffin lid down, “he assured us that young Bilbo was a professional burglar looking for excitement.”

(Thorin looked out the corner of his eye to see that the amused quirk that had been dwelling at the corner of Gandalf’s lips had coincidentally vanished. He tried not to be visibly satisfied with that.)

Isembard Took, in a credible impression of a set of bellows, swelled up.

“GANDALF GREYHAME WHAT BY YAVANNA’S GREEN HILLS WERE YOU THINKING!?” he roared.

(Gandalf was suddenly and starkly reminded of Isembard’s ancestor Bullroarer, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was hastily trying to figure out a way to not get himself banned from the Shire for the rest of living memory, he might have been nostalgic.)

 “He was thinking about the bigger picture, as always,” came a wry voice with more than a bit of a creak in it.

Thirteen dwarves and one wizard spun to see that once again, a hobbit had managed to sneak up on them.

This time, apparently through the front door.

 (Privately, a number of them were starting to understand why merely  _being_  a hobbit was enough to make a superior burglar.)

 The speaker was an aged hobbit, who looked to be old enough to be Isembard’s mother, and was a good head shorter than the next-tallest hobbit in the room. A white mob-cap sat on her silvery-white curls, and she was straight-backed despite her age. She glided in and sat herself down in a large armchair by the fire, like a queen setting herself upon her throne.

“The trouble with you Big Folk,” she continued, unperturbed by their reactions to her presence, “is that you tend to be so caught up in your Bigger Pictures that you forget about the Little Details.”

She snapped her fingers, and one of the hobbits who had been backing up Isembard rushed to get her a cup of tea, whilst the venerable hobbit lady continued to speak.

“There is nothing wrong with being preoccupied with the bigger picture in the scheme of things,” she said with an air of charitable condescension, “as it does tend to affect us all, however,” she eyed Gandalf with a spark of amusement, “when you start making assumptions, that’s when the trouble starts.”

“Indeed, Mistress Baggins,” responded Gandalf, speaking with more respect than any of those present had previously heard him use. “As I told young Bilbo, I rather owe him an apology for my oversight.”

Mistress Baggins rolled her eyes. “Oh shush, Gandalf. You’re making me feel old. You knew me as Laura when I was still a Grubb.”

“Laura then,” returned Gandalf with a small smile.

Once lightly steaming teacup with saucer was sitting in her hands, Laura looked about the room, calmly taking in all she saw with sharp, bright eyes.

“Now then, gentledwarves. I was assured by my great-grandson that you were all perfectly capable of civility, appearances aside. So if those of you make the decisions could come over here where I can see you, we can discuss terms.”

“Terms, madam?” said Gloin, a little tentatively.

“Yes, dear,” said Laura, taking a serene sip of her tea. “You can’t have my Tookish Baggins grandson, (my little great-grandson needs him a little too much at the moment, I’m sure you can all see that,) but young Bilbo explained what it was you need, and we put our heads together and decided that if you dwarves can convince me that the purpose of your quest is worthwhile, then I might be able to negotiate with you the conditions of taking along someone who will still fit Gandalf’s criteria, but be actually  _willing._ ”

Gandalf frowned, but not to disagree.

“Who would that be then?” he asked.

Laura cackled, “You’ll know soon enough.” She sobered. “ _If_  these dwarves can tell me a story that will make me think their plan is worth risking my family.”

She paused, and sipped delicately at her tea.

“Now then, boys. Convince me.”

Balin started talking.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Those of you who are sticklers for detail will have noticed that in canon, Laura Baggins nee Chubb would have been long dead. However, considering I have already warped time so that Frodo is born 20 or so years earlier, similarly, Laura Baggins survived to live almost as long as Old Took (she’s currently 126, and he lived to be 130). Why? Because I could. And because I’ve decided that what the Shire fanon needs are some more BAMF lady hobbits, and I couldn’t go better than a grand old matriarch. Originally the negotiating was done by Isembard, but then he got too cranky, and a cooler head needed to take charge.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is sorted out. Most are satisfied.

It felt strange to speak so frankly about the suffering of their people, but Balin knew that this one time, typical dwarven stoicism would win them no points.

He spoke of Erebor, how it had been before- comfortable, and glorious.

He spoke of the coming of the dragon, and how it felt to have one’s fate changed entirely rather literally in one fell swoop.

He spoke of their time wandering.

He spoke of the hardships of the road, of the losses, the deaths, the orphans, and the lost children. He spoke of how few had helped them, and fewer still had been willing to offer refuge.

He spoke of how though they would be forever grateful to their Ered Luin kin for taking them in, the Blue Mountains was barely able to support _them_ , let alone the several thousand survivors of the fall of Erebor.

He spoke of a century of poverty, of being naught but wandering tinkers, where once they had been craftsmen.

And finally.

He spoke of hope.

He spoke of the hope that the wizard had brought, when he had said that now, finally, this was the time, and that maybe, after so long, their wandering might be over.

They might be able to go home.

“Very well, you’ve convinced me,” said Laura, dabbing slightly at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

Balin was startled. He had not expected it to be so easy.

“Truly?” he asked, not bothering to hide his surprise. “We have been called vagabonds, and we have been called tramps, but you are one of the few to be sympathetic to our pathetic wandering state.”

“You should know,” said Laura quietly, still sniffling a little, “we hobbits once wandered too, and we are not ashamed of it.”

The dwarves exchanged shocked glances. This was not something they had known.

“My grandmother used to tell me stories that her grandmother had told her,” Laura continued. “She told me of how we were forced to leave the Gladden Fields, and to wander, hungry, thin, footsore. Being attacked by orcs, and bad Men, and ignored by all who considered their troubles to be greater than ours.” She half-smiled at the widened dwarven eyes.  “Yes, we too wandered, until we were lucky enough to find the Shire. The Shire was not always so green- we had to make it so. Fortunately, we hobbits are blessed by Yavanna, and good at arranging things for our own comfort, and so several generations later, and you would never know that this place used to be entirely empty of our kind.” She placed her teacup aside. “I used to wonder what would have happened if we could not find a place we could settle. I suppose now I know. An alternative history, I suppose.”

She paused suddenly, and then called out, “You can come in now, I know you’ve all been listening at the door.”

The dwarves looked up to see the door opening.

Bilbo came walking back in, carrying Frodo, with the Took couple, and a third who looked enough alike Bilbo and Flambard that the dwarves could only assume he was also related.

“You came here looking for a Tookish Baggins to help you on your journey,” said Bilbo without fanfare, and not bothering to hide that they had indeed been listening to every word. “How would you feel about a Bagginsish Took?”

The dwarves blinked. Not many had a clue what Bilbo was talking about, and even those who did, had not expected _this_.

Gandalf, the senior dwarves weren’t slow to note, looked somewhere between gobsmacked and thoughtful. It was not an expression that they had seen before on _Tharkun’s_ face, and the very unfamiliarity of it made it all the more worthy of interest.

“This is my cousin Adalgrim,” Bilbo continued. Adalgrim bowed slightly. “He’s been a bounder for twelve years, is a decent shot with a bow, and…” Bilbo grinned a little mischievously, “He needs to get away from his wife for a bit before she kills him.”

“Oh Addy,” one of the bounders behind Isembard’s back groaned with a giant smile on his face. “Another? Didn’t she say that little Paddy was the last, and that was that?”

Adalgrim beamed a little sheepishly and scratched the back of his head. “What can I say, I love my dear sweet Briar, for all that she’s about to cheerfully murder me for getting her pregnant again.”

To the surprise of most of those present, the three Ur brothers groaned in sympathy. “As much as I love my darling Kala, suffice to say that I thought facing a dragon would be preferable to sticking about when she said she was going to add a third bairn to my brood,” Bombur said. “I figured with my share of the treasure we’d actually be able to afford another mouth to feed, and I’d be able to placate her with something shiny,” he said, though the glint in his eyes suggested he was at least half-joking. “The babe will be a blessing when it comes of course, but…”

“My sister-in-law wields a pickaxe something terrifying even without whatever it is that makes females so terrifying when they’re with babe,” finished Bofur with an exaggerated shudder.

Adalgrim shook his head. “You think you have it bad now, wait until it’s your fifth one.”

The dwarves stared at him in amazement.

“And you’d be happy to leave your family, to come with us?” Dwalin tested.

Adalgrim smiled a little ruefully, and stepped up to stand beside Laura’s chair, gently taking her hand. “Oh, I’ll miss them dearly, sure as anything, but I’m out most of the year on bounder business at any rate. My faunts will barely note the difference, and I’m frankly not as needed as much as Bilbo here- I’m breadwinner, but Briar’s taken her old mum in to keep an eye on her as she’s going a bit senile, and the old bat hates me,” he explained cheerfully. “And in between Briar’s inheritance from her Goold side, and the family from my Took side, I know she and the kiddies’ll be well-looked after should anything happen to me.”

Laura snorted rudely.  “As though I’d let my niece’s grandchildren go wanting. Get ye gone, rogue, and we’ll barely notice you missing,” she said, although the twinkle in her eyes and the way she gripped Adalgrim’s hand tightly belied her harsh words.

(What was not said in front of the dwarves was the fact that though Adalgrim indeed loved his wife and children, and did spend a reasonable amount of the year away working to keep the Shire safe so that they could all live in comfort, Ivy Goold, his mother-in-law was a hard hobbit, who even before her mind had started to go loathed Adalgrim, and would say cruel things to him in front of his children. However, she had only her daughter to take her in now that she was ill. Adalgrim and Briar had talked about what they were going to do in the interim, and had come to the conclusion he would have to stay with friends for a while, until other arrangements could be made. (Or, neither of them said aloud, the old bat either died or forgot him entirely. He wasn’t picky.) In this context, the quest was timed perfectly. Briar would be relieved.)

“And so you would be happy to sign the contract to join our venture?” Balin asked tentatively, looking rather as though he could not believe his luck.

“I’ll have a look over that contract first, nephew,” said Isembard rather firmly. “Make sure you aren’t being taken advantage of.” Laura Baggins nodded her indication that she too would be looking over the contract.

Adalgrim smiled and made hand motions that seemed to say, ‘as you please.’

“Though if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to also take my friend and partner Dinodas Brandybuck along with us. He’s a little younger than me, but he’s a good solid hobbit, and a fantastic shot.”

Balin conferred with Thorin for a moment. They supposed that it would be reasonable that the hobbit would want someone he knew to be there to watch his back. And after all, a party of fifteen was a better buffer from an unlucky number than a party of fourteen.

(And they had come to realise that these hobbits might not be dead weight on this journey after all. More volunteering was hardly a thing they should discourage, especially considering that they had received none from the Iron Hills that they had hoped for.)

“Would the two of you be willing to split your share of the treasure between you?” Balin asked.

“Sure,” replied Adalgrim easily.

The dwarves blinked in surprise.

“So long as you’re all willing to pay my out of pocket expenses up-front to get me and Noddy kitted out properly before we get going,” he continued breezily. Hobbits might not be overly concerned with gold in the general scheme of things, but it was bad business to let people think that could be taken advantage of.

If a job was worth being paid to do, then it was worth getting paid in full to do it.

Besides, Adalgrim had five children, a wife and a thoroughly ungrateful mother-in-law to provide for. They would not starve if he were not there to provide for them, but he would like them all to be fat, comfortable and generous like the best of hobbits. A bit of extra gold could help immensely with that goal.

Balin threw him a shrewd look. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.”

Adalgrim poked his head out the door. “Noddy! Get over here!”

A few minutes later, and Adalgrim Took’s and Dinodas Brandybuck’s signatures sat together on a contract that had been hastily modified under the gimlet gazes of Isembard Took and Laura Baggins, and the interested gaze of Bilbo Baggins, who had quietly suggested a few points, including the fact that hobbits seemed to eat quite a bit more than dwarves.

“What, really?” asked Oin, surprised when it came up.

Bilbo smiled mirthlessly. “I thought Gandalf might be bringing out five extra guests at the outside, and prepared food accordingly. When Dwalin told me that there were thirteen dwarves coming, I thought I was going to have to break into my second pantry. Imagine my surprise that we haven’t.”

They considered that thought for a moment, and then Balin added a few lines about time set aside for hunting and gathering, and purchase of an extra pony for carrying supplies without complaint. Though the hobbits watched the dwarves with a light of suspicion, Thorin and Balin, the only two negotiating, were both on their best behaviour, and intent on being forthright, to offset the diplomatic issues created by Gandalf.

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Well, now that we’ve got all of that sorted, it’s well past this little mite’s bedtime.” Indeed, Frodo was clearly nodding off in his arms, eyelids flickering at half-mast.

Adalgrim cleared his throat. “Whilst my cousin Bilbo would no doubt be willing to put you up for the night, a good half of you would be sleeping on the floor. Could I interest any of you in beds? It’s a bit of a walk to mine, but we’ve two guest bedrooms, so at least four more of you could avoid the floor.”

In the end it was agreed that Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur would go with Adalgrim, whilst the others would stay at Bag End.

Isembard, three of Isembard’s retinue, and Laura preceded the dwarves out the door.

“It’s alright, everything has been properly sorted out. You can all go home now!” Isembard shouted.

For a moment, the dwarves wondered who he was speaking to, and then suddenly as though by magic, a hundred-odd hobbits appeared as though from nowhere.

“Mahal!” Bofur breathed. “Where did they even _come_ from?”

Laura Baggins heard his exclamation, and chuckled. “Isembard no doubt told you of the thirty bounders. The rest are all spectators. This is one of the more interesting things that has happened in the Shire in a while, so of course everyone wanted to have a first-hand look. Mind you,” she continued, a twinkle in her eye, “if you had caused trouble, then they would not have been spectating anymore.”

The dwarves nodded a little faintly.

Message received.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end and the beginning.

It had not escaped Thorin’s notice that _Tharkun_ had somehow managed to fade into the background once the elder hobbits started negotiating with himself and Balin. One minute, he had been up front and centre, being berated by each of the elder hobbits in turn, and the next, he had somehow vanished from notice.

Thorin cornered the wizard in the kitchen about it before the two of them went to sleep.

“Hobbits really are amazing creatures,” mused _Tharkun_ , shaking his head when Thorin demanded to know what in Mandos’ Halls had the wizard been thinking. “You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month and yet, after a hundred years, they can still surprise you.”

Thorin snorted. “Indeed. Is that why you very helpfully disappeared just when the negotiations started? Because you were ‘surprised’?” Thorin’s tone made it clear that he was thoroughly unimpressed.

“It seemed that you and they had things well in hand,” Gandalf started rather blithely, but then he saw the Thorin’s expression at that and sighed. “In all honesty, I did not think my input would be appreciated, and worse, it might have caused the negotiation to break down. Upset hobbits can be rather unreasonable. Even worse than upset dwarves.”

“How so?” asked Dori, who happened to overhear as he wandered through with a cup of tea.

 _Tharkun_ winced. “Upset dwarves get violent. Upset hobbits get _creative._ ”

Thorin and Dori paused at that.

“Creative… how?” asked Dori cautiously, with a tone that suggested he was unsure if he really wanted to know.

The wizard sighed. “Hobbits value comfort above all else. So when they’re upset, they do their best to disrupt the comfort of those that did the upsetting as best they can, with petty little vengeances that seem like nothing when considered in theory, but end with one feeling hungry, tired, damp, bruised, and quite possibly ill. It starts with bootlaces,” _Tharkun_  said a little darkly, “and then by the time it’s reached the point of the only food left being something you’re allergic to, and you realise that there has been a _reason_ for all the little inconveniences piling up, it’s too late to apologise, because now the hobbit is in a snit from you not realising that they were in a proper snit with you, and that the oddly polite behaviour was not them getting over it, it was passive aggression waiting for you to lower your guard.”

Thorin considered this. “It sounds as though this is something you have first-hand experience with,” he noted.

The wizard grimaced. “When buttons from your coats start disappearing, and the food starts to mysteriously taste worse within a day of you saying something offensive to one of the hobbits, don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Dori scowled. “At least this way we _get_ a warning. If I understand the situation right, you never would have given us any such thing if Mister Baggins had not thrown water on your forge.”

Gandalf muttered something about needing to get some sleep, because they would have an exhausting day of travelling tomorrow, and left the kitchen.

Thorin and Dori exchanged glances.

“Whilst I am finding that the wizard does, in fact appear to have made a good decision when he picked out our hypothetical burglar, (considering that he was not afraid to stand up to him, after all,) personal commitments aside, I am thinking that Mrs. Laura Baggins may have had a point when she spoke of him losing sight of the smaller details,” Thorin stated.

Dori grimaced. “Indeed. Even so, right now he has a point, and so I will be getting some sleep in the last bed I am likely to see for some time now.”

Thorin decided that the silver-haired dwarf had a point, and so made for the bedroom that the hobbit had kindly made up for him with fresh sheets. Especially kindly, Thorin noted a little glumly, since it appeared that this was the master bedroom, and thus usually Baggins’ room. The hobbit had insisted that he would be absolutely fine to sleep in young Frodo’s room in the chair, stating that he slept there often enough anyway because the little hobbit sometimes had nightmares about his parents.

Not stated aloud, but not missed by Thorin, who remembered his own nephews when they had been that age, was that there was a fair chance that the upset today might bring those nightmares back in such a small child.

Ah well. There was little that Thorin could do about it, though he would make an effort to ensure that Baggins’ cousin and his friend came back alive. The hobbits had done the company a favour in more ways than one, despite the wizard trying to have a bit of “harmless” fun. It bothered Thorin that _Tharkun_ did not seem to be taking the outset of this quest entirely seriously, but on the other hand, this was ameliorated by the long-term investment in a solid candidate for their burgling.

It was something to ponder.

It would be a long journey, and Thorin would have time to add observations before he came to a conclusion.

The next day, Bilbo cooked all who were present at his house breakfast, “because it might be the last decent meal you lot get for a month of Sundays.”

The dwarves were more than happy to take advantage of his kindness, but made sure to thank the hobbit profusely. Before the dwarves left, the small figurine that Bofur had given Frodo the night before of the dwarf riding a goat gained a few compatriots (much to the young hobbit’s delight), the house was sparkling clean, and some silver spoons that Bilbo knew for certain had been “borrowed” by his cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins mysteriously found their way back into his cutlery drawer.

In response to this, Bilbo stated categorically that the dwarves were the very best kind of houseguests, and that they could come back whenever they wished.

“Tea is at four, and Frodo and I could always do with the company,” he said. “So if you ever feel like visiting once you’ve finished your business with the dragon, then you know where to find us.”

The dwarves felt this to be uncommonly generous, and none of them missed the fact that Bilbo seemed sure that they would succeed. Such a vote of confidence, even from a soft hobbit who no doubt knew little enough of the world was rather touching.

Soon afterwards however, they had to leave.

Bilbo and Frodo walked with them down to meet the rest of their company at the Green Dragon Inn (Oin wondered aloud if that was a portent of some kind).

As they rode away from the Shire, Adalgrim and Dinodas shared a grin.

“So, you ready for an adventure?” Adalgrim asked his brother-in-arms.

“Ready?” Dinodas scoffed. “It’s not whether we are ready for the adventure. It is whether the adventure is ready for us!”

Neither of them seemed to note the incredulous looks they were getting from the rest of the company.

“A Took and a Brandybuck,” they heard Gandalf mutter, either forgetting about hobbit hearing or not bothered about being heard. “This is going to be _interesting._ ”

The dwarves who overheard him were not entirely sure how to interpret the wizard’s tone, but did not let this bother them. They had a long journey ahead of them.

There would be time enough to worry about such things when they happened.

 

Having embraced his cousin and his cousin-by marriage farewell, Bilbo watched with his ward until the dwarves and the wizard had left with them, and were out of sight.

Bilbo sighed.

“Do you wish you could have gone with them?” Frodo asked him, looking up at him, his eyes wide with frank fauntling concern.

Bilbo smiled. “I think bringing you up is more than enough adventure for me.”

Then he swung his nephew onto his shoulder, and they went home.


End file.
